On The Edge
by BlueEyes444
Summary: It's been said that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Well, Dean's about to find out.


**Disclaimer: I don't _Supernatural_…**

**Summary: It's been said that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Well, Dean's about to find out. **

**Thanks to my team of awesome writers-in-arms, Miles333 ****and ****Sparkiebunny****. **

**Set: Early, early season four. **

**Warning: Graphic attempted suicide, but that's all I can say without giving it away. Dark and heavy on the angst. But some fluff at the end to even things out.**

**I admit, I've never done anything like this before, but the idea refused to leave me alone until it was written. Also, I don't think I have to say it, but just in case, no Wincrest. **

* * *

_You're worthless, pathetic, a loser. You do know that the fact that your brother's a freak is your fault, right? And I have to ask…do you and Sammy know the real monster of the family?_

_It's you, hunter. You._

He shivers, skin covered with a thin sheen of goosebumps and sweat. His sweatshirt is covered with blood, fresh and dry. And all is his. His lips are dry and cracked and the taste of blood is still sharp in his mouth; he fights not to gag from the terribly familiar taste. It should worry him that he knows he's bleeding, but he can't feel any pain…maybe shock.

Wouldn't it give up yet? It's been rattling in his head for at least ten minutes, trying to make him break. He isn't going down like those other men.

He tries to ignore the voice, whispery, and feminine and in a way, seductive, but he can't anymore. His mind worn down by her constant jabs, the words piercing him like a hot poker, they're all so _true,_ the words echoing through his head.

_Your father's dead…because of _you. _Your brother died because _you_ didn't protect him. Your mother's dead. We won't even go there. Aren't you seeing a pattern here yet, hunter? _

_We're not even going to mention all those _innocent _lives that were lost, because _you_ didn't get there in time. Meg, Ronald, Jessica, Sally, Madison, Amy, Ben, Curt and so, so, many more. Destruction, and death. They're always going to be there no matter how far, how fast you run._

He's swaying, his legs feeling weak and he's not sure if that's from the blood loss or the shock. But whatever it is, he's struggling to stand.

"Get out of my head," he manages, voice nothing more thaen a croak.

The voice doesn't reply, just keeps on, trying to wear him down. But he has got news for it…she…was going to have to keep trying, because it could take a lot more than _this_.

_If only you were a better hunter. Then you could have found your father by yourself. Sam would still be safe at school, living with Jessica, happy and _safe_. Which he isn't with you at all. Your father would still be alive, too. You know the way Sammy looks at you? He doesn't trust you enough to tell you the truth. Your own brother doesn't trust you anymore and is lying through his teeth. _

_That's got to hurt, hunter. That the brother you worship and _died_ for is lying to your face, every single day, because he doesn't trust you enough to tell you the truth. And while you need him like a lifeline, I'm sure you know that he doesn't need __you__ as much as you need him. He _never_ did and __never will.__ We both know that he would be better of__f__ without you._

"You...don't...know anyth'ng 'bout Sammy," he slurs, his tongue feeling like sandpaper against the top of his mouth, nausea rolling over him. He swallows. Once. Twice. He's pretty sure he's losing a lot more blood than could possibly be good. And he knows that he's losing the strength to stop what the voice wants him to do.

_Oh, of course I do. Unlike you. You don't know your little brother that well anymore, do you?_

He doesn't bother to reply, bile still in the back of his throat, his head swimming. The voice is just trying to get to him, and bringing Sammy up again and again, it knew that it would hit a vulnerable point eventually. That was all.

_Oh, Dean. Honestly? You know what I've been saying for the last ten minutes is true. That the whole world would be better off without you in it. _

A sense of dread is coming over him and he finds it's hard to suck air into his lungs.

Got to stay strong. Sammy will find me. He may have said it a loud, but he's not sure. All he's sure of is the feel of the blade that's been slowly cutting through the flesh of his palm as his grip around it has tightened.

_He won't, Dean. He doesn't care if you live or die. After all, you ruined his whole life. We both know that he wishes you stayed dead…everyone does. They didn't need you, and they still don't. Why don't you do them a favor? At least you'll have done something right…_

He's trembling, the earlier resistance he had crumbling around him. Maybe she was right…

"No," he groans, using everything he has left to shake his head. He can't be thinking like this. She was just trying to–

_Winchesters were always good at the denial thing. _

He's trying to clear his head but it's so jumbled with thoughts of everything she's told him; he can't separate anything. And he's so confused and so tired and what she's saying is true, isn't it? Sam would be better off without him, and... and Sam…oh, Sammy…a feeling of grief crashes over him and he struggles to keep standing.

And for a second, he mourns for the brother he's almost positive he's lost forever.

_Now, you see, Dean. Good, good. You know what to do._

Did he? Did he really? His hand is shaking as he moves the blade from his palm, as he watches the blood drip from the knife to the ground.

_Come on, do it._

It's like slow motion. His fingers are cool and his hand is clammy but he touches his opposite wrist. The blade cuts through skin, and blood is in seconds falling to the ground. Pain radiates through his arm and his whole body, the first hint of pain he's felt for a while. And he cuts deeper and deeper and there's so much blood and he's sure if he cuts anymore he'll hit the bone of his wrist…and he watches the blood run down the knife and his skin.

He lifts the knife from the cuts, lightheaded and dizzy and stares at the blood coating the blade.

He stumbles and it takes every ounce of remaining strength not to drop his knife or let gravity pull him to his knees. The world is spinning, and he can't focus on anything. His hands are shaking..

"Dean!"

The knife drops from his hand, clinks on the ground, and he's faltering, close to letting the ground pull him down, his eyes slipping closed automatically. But that voice…

He hears the sound of running feet and for a moment, he tenses, his instincts telling him to turn. But he can't. It hurts too much…he lets out the smallest of whimpers as pain radiates through his entire body. It hurts.

Then he's falling.

But suddenly someone's there, stopping him from hitting the ground. He wants to open his eyes, find the owner of the voice and the firm but trembling touch because something about this isn't right…he shouldn't be here.

"No, _no_, no. I can't lose you again, Dean. I _can't_." Those eleven words broke his heart, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why.

Then everything went black

xxx

Everything's blurring and the world's shaking.

He's bumping and rattling around and he's so cold.

It hurts to breathe and ever little sip of air he takes, he knows it might just be his last.

He's on a cliff, wavering, struggling, _dying_.

On one hand, there's warmth, and hands he knows and a touch that screams safety and care. And he can't tell if it's real or not.

Then on the other, it's cold, painful and _alone_. And for some reason, it's familiar to him to and he can't honestly separate the two from one other.

The touch is recognizable and warm and he feels a hand tightly holding his own, another around his opposite wrist. Even when the pain from the hold on his wrist is close to choking him, that familiar sense of touch and closure made it better.

He can feel other hands, hands he doesn't like. One's holding something against his stomach and it _hurts_ so bad. Another, arm maybe, is holding down his legs.

He tries to fight but it hurts too much, and he can't escape for some reason.

He's pinned.

Even in this half-state of consciousness, he feels his body tensing and preparing to go in the flight-or-fight response.

Then, a hand is stroking his hair and muttering words he can't quite comprehend but suddenly, he knows he's safe.

And right now, that's all he needs.

xxx

He wakes up again and the pain is worse than before. But at least he _does_ wake up. Even in the state he's in, he knows every time he drifts, he might not wake up again.

It feels like an elephant's crushing his chest and every breath he pulls in is labored and hard and it _hurts_.

Each breath is harsh and rattles his chest and he's wondering how long he can force his lungs to work.

As he takes another labored breath, he realizes there's the hint of words, male voice…voices?...in the background and he struggles to hear bits and pieces.

"…far…we…"

"… far enough…"

"…breathe, Dean….I have you…just breathe."

He needs this to be real. The voice, the safety, the love that he can hear.

_Please let this be the real one._

He's so cold. His teeth are chattering together and he can't breathe that well and he's searching for that warmth, safety, _family_but he can't find it. Yet he knows it's there _somewhere_.

Then he hears words, he can't make them out this time, but they're soft and smoothing and they're just as comforting as the warm hands. He finds himself fading once again.

Sammy.

And he's lost in the black.

xxx

Dean wakes up again but this time to the steady flow of beeps, which he knows instantly, belong to a heart monitor, a strange feeling of lightheadedness, which he can only assume is from whatever painkillers he's been given and a tight grip around his wrist.

His eyes flutter open and he winces silently as the movement causes pain to shot through his body. He's propped up on pillows and blankets cover him and for a second, he swears if he's in one of those hospital gowns, he would seriously be driven to kill someone.

He blinks several times as the room around comes into focus and finds himself staring down at the sleeping form of his brother.

Sam's long fingers are digging into tender flesh and his head is resting on the bed, dark mop of hair covering his face. And for a minute, Dean's content just to watch him sleep.

As if sensing that his brother's awake, Sam startles suddenly, blinks those bloodshot, chocolate, without a hint of that coldness that scares Dean more then he'll ever admit, puppy dog eyes at his brother and in seconds, he's straightened and he's staring at Dean with a mixture of guilt, worry, fear, and relief.

Dean offers a smile which turns more into a wince and the next thing he knows, Sam's standing above him, holding a foam cup to his lips, not needing a word to know what Dean needed.

He takes couple sips of the blessedly cool water before pulling away, coughing and choking. Sam's hand is resting on his shoulder; Dean has a feeling it's to remind Sam that he's there so he doesn't pull away.

It takes a couple moments but Dean finally catches his breath and he motions for Sammy to sit beside him.

Sam sits the glass down on a small table beside the bed, then sits down on the side that Dean's facing.

For the first time, Dean gets a good look at his brother, notices the dark circles below his eyes, the paleness and worry lines that seem to be permanent. He feels incredibly guilty for putting his brother through so much worry.

Oblivious of what he's thinking, Sam asks, "How do you feel?" His voice catches and Dean can tell he's struggling to keep it together.

"What happn'ed?" He's purposefully ignoring the question because for once he's not sure how to reply. His voice is rough and his throat is dry and his head is still pretty foggy.

Sam shifts his position. "Marlene Gideon."

Then it comes back to him. Oklahoma, a series of ninety suicides ranging a decade. "Spirit, right?"

Sam nods, looking drawn. "Yeah. Her fiancée drove her to suicide and she's been killing him over and over with men that resembled him."

Dean frowns, rubbing a hand unconsciously across his stomach, knowing that as soon as the painkillers, Morphine by the way he's head is feeling so foggy, he's gong to be in a serious amount of pain. "What happened after I went out to get something to eat?" He could honestly say most of the rest was a blur and he couldn't help but wonder if that was something he had to be worried about.

Sam flinched, and looked down. "Marlene found you." Oh. That explained it.

Dean winced silently, pain shooting through his body. "'S not your fault, Sam."

The look that Sam shot him said he doubted it but he didn't say anything. Dean sighed silently before trying a different approach. He had felt pretty much the same way after Sam had been injured the first time after being killed.

"You couldn't have known that Marlene would go after me next, Sammy, and look, I'm fine." Sam doesn't say anything but Dean can clearly tell, that he doesn't believe a word out of his mouth and obviously wants the subject changed.

As soon as he gets out of here, he's going have to knock some sense into his younger brother, because what happened was not Sam's fault. But not right now. Sam looks like he could fall apart at the seams any time.

"You know I'm not good with this chick stuff but…come here." He motions for Sam to lie down, glad that even if he's so drugged up on painkillers his head is still clear.

Sam is hesitant, but Dean motions again, and he lies down beside his brother, lanky frame barely fitting on the bed. Dean grabs his arm tightly, silently telling him that he's not leaving again, and that he's sorry for bringing what happened up again but he needs to know why the last thing he can remember before waking up is Marlene's whispers.

As if sensing that Dean needs to know, Sam begins to speak, voice quiet and full of emotion, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "About ten minutes after you left, I figured it out. That all the men that had been killed looked like her fiancé and that you fit the same profile. That was when you called." Sam takes in a deep breath and Dean can tell he was struggling to speak again. But he continues, voice rough.

"You told me where you were, said that Marlene found you and if I got there too late, it wasn't my fault." Sam chokes, and Dean can tell Sam's closer to losing it then he was. Dean tightens his hold. Was it wrong that he's glad to see this side of Sam? Emotional and all? He would never admit it but he had been scared of how unemotional Sam had been ever since he returned…been scared of his _own_ brother.

"I called Bobby and Josh and Shawn West." Dean doesn't recognize the last two names and figures Sam met them when he was d…not going there. "They took care of Marlene." He pauses and closes his eyes. "There was so much blood, Dean."

Dean has no idea how to comfort his brother verbally so he just tightens his hold even more, and lets Sam lie is head on his shoulder.

After a moment of silence, Sam spoke. "Knife to the stomach and then to one of your wrists." Then he laughed humorlessly. "The doctors were tempted to put you on a suicide watch." Dean doesn't say anything, just lets Sam talk.

"I can't lose you again," Sam moans, and then he was sobbing and all Dean can do is hold him and offer silent comfort.

He has no idea how long Sam sobs but eventually his brother silences and he's wondering if he's drifted off to sleep when a quite muffled voice breaks the silence.

"Don't leave me again."

"I won't, Sammy. I won't."

Then, "If you ever want to talk, I'm here." The voice is filled with tiredness and in seconds, Dean knows his brother dropped off.

Wincing, Dean adjusts his hold around Sam's arm, and yawns, emotionally and physically tired. "Yeah, I know, Sammy. I know."

As he drifts off, he realizes that Marlene was wrong about two things for sure. Sam _wouldn't_ be better off without him, and that Sam needs him as much or even more than he does Sam. Even though at times now, Sam pretends he doesn't need anyone, what doesn't Dean know about the kid?

Besides whatever Sammy feels he needs to hide from him.

Dean frowns and glances down at his sleeping brother, fighting to keep his eyes open. Why doesn't Sam trust him enough to tell him whatever he's hiding?

Sighing, he uses a hand to brush against his brother's hair. He trusts Sam and eventually, he's sure he can earn his brother's trust back. It might take a while, but he's sure that when Sam's ready, he'll talk.

Yawning again, Dean fastens his arm around Sam and closes his eyes. Whatever's going to happen, screw the world ending, he'll always have his brother and really, is there anything else he needs?

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**Please take the time to review…I'm not entirely sure about this….**


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